


Artwork

by orphan_account



Category: JeromeASF - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Team Crafted
Genre: Art, Depression, F/M, Gen, Mich is the coolest friend ever, Murals, Past Violence, Self Confidence Issues, protanopia, red colorblindness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 12:06:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2024562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He likes to paint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artwork

He likes to paint. 

He shouldn't.  He shouldn't like the way the colors unfold under his paws, like flowers on aspring morning. He shouldn't like the way light looks filtered through a forest canopy, the shine of the water in the river. He can't even see all the colors. He doesn't know what red looks like, or how the world appears when you can see red. 

Mich once tried to describe red for him once, when he asked. She'd told him that if the smell of blood had a color, or if anger did, then that color would be red. Color of anger and hatred, blood and passion, danger and death. 

Mich understood how he felt about his art. They had been made by Notch, the old god that had made Minecraftia, as warriors. That had been the sole purpose of their creation, with the personalities coming later. Warriors. Fighters. Legends. It showed, even now, in both of them, physically and mentally. Mich's face was marred by a diagonal scar that slashed her face in two. The thing that had dealt the blow that created the mark had not had bad aim.

Unfortunately for it, Mich was better.

 He loved painting. He really did. But there was the nagging sense that it wasn't right. He was supposed to be the warrior, the victor, soldier against the darkness of Herobrine. Soldiers  didn't paint pictures of butterflies on the walls of their base, right?

He'd asked Mich about that too. She'd shrugged. "Can if they want to," she'd said with a grin. "No reason why not."

She was wrong. There were reasons. They were the wrong reasons though,  so he ignored them.

Sometimes he wondered if he and Mich were too attached to each other. Thousands of years of friendship will do that to a person. 

Michelle North was sometimes a hard person to be friends with. She was bright and strong and brave and angry, angry with the world itself, at times. She never backed down from a challenge, never let herself give in, and treated every issue like a battle to be won.She was witty and clever, but he'd seen Mich at other times to. Dark times, where the poisons of depression came creeping in like deadly mist.

 

Depression. A simple name for an awful disease, and it was a disease, wasn't it, complete with physical symptoms. Mich knew she had it, but she fought it like everything else. He'd heard her say things while dealing with spells of it, things she'd not told anyone else. Well, more one thing.

 

She was afraid.

And he'd told her that fear was normal, but she'd said wait, let me finish,  I know it's normal, you didn't let me finish talking. I ain't scared now. 

Why? he'd asked.

I've got my big stinking bacca friend, she'd said with a grin. 

He wasn't scared either. He had his Benja, and his Betty, gleaming blue at his side. And his paintings. 

They'd waded through fire and blood, fear and shining iron. They'd met gods and monsters, and survived the destruction of Dragon's Gate, their home and sanctuary for fifty years. And all the while they raised their heads high and laughed when others cried because they were Mich and Jerome, and they didn't bow to the storm.

Mich fought demons and won, they said.

Jerome had defeated a Wither alone, they said. 

They had problems. Lots of problems. But you couldn't let those defeat you, otherwise  how were you supposed to bring the sort of problem that is very sharp to your many enemies?

Their life was hard, yes. Every night heralded new terrors from the dark.

That was okay. They were terrors too.

Jerome finished the last swirl of color and stepped back, satisfied.

It was a large painting that covered the entire outside ceiling of the base. It depicted him, and as many of his friends, his family, as he could fit. In the center was Nooch, Rob, Vikk, Preston...and Mich.

He heard once that your strengths were your friends. That was certainly true.

 

 

It wasn't just about painting, really.

 

 

His instincts, that said fight, hunt chase kill, that thought his art wrong, could snuff it. He wasn't a soldier.

 

 

That was fine.

 

 


End file.
